


Ocean Eyes

by shealwaysreads (onereader)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy got hot, First Dates, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry Was Rapidly Becoming Obsessed with Draco Malfoy, Heterochromia, M/M, POV Harry Potter, Unspeakable Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:41:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25422571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onereader/pseuds/shealwaysreads
Summary: Pale skin. Grey eyes. Sleek hair.Some things are a constant in Harry’s life, and Malfoy is one of them. Until he isn’t—not the way he acts, and not the way he looks.It might take Harry a little while to get used to it, but eventually he decides that change can be good, too.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 56
Kudos: 635
Collections: HP Inspired by Imagery Fest - 2020





	Ocean Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> This was a self-prompt for the HP Inspired By fest - this image sparked the story.
> 
> Big thanks to my lovely betas T, M, and M without whom this might not have made it to ao3 at all! ❤️

Ever since Harry had met Malfoy, small and mean, all those years ago in Madam Malkin's shop, he had been acutely aware of what he looked like. Even walking away with Hagrid, he had silently mulled over the unusual, unpleasant little boy he had just spoken to (before he was distracted by golden cauldrons and stacks of wands). Pale, unblemished skin, a pointy chin, clear grey eyes, and painfully neat, white-blonde hair. He had reminded Harry of Dudley, but only in his attitude—not his appearance. Despite his horrible demeanour and sneering superiority, Malfoy had always sort of looked, well, perfect. 

Harry had hated it. He had hated Malfoy’s _everything_ when his own looks—his messy hair, his jagged scar, his brown skin and his knobbly knees—had always marked him apart from the Dursleys as freakish, and wrong, and unwanted. Looking back, Harry sometimes thought he might have actually given Malfoy a chance, in First Year, if he hadn’t looked like the sort of boy the Dursleys would have loved. 

Malfoy had always looked the same, always neat, always fair; a study in monochrome, grey-toned and sharp-edged. 

He had looked that way in First Year, and Second, and all the way through to Sixth Year too; even though by then his grey eyes were sunken in exhausted shadows, dark like bruises for most of the year. He had looked the same when he’d denied knowing Harry in his parlour, during the war; and in the aftermath too, at the trials. Harry knew that face. 

Pale skin. Grey eyes. Sleek hair. 

From their very first meeting, Harry had always been able to spot Malfoy—in a crowd. or across a sun-bright sky at speed, or in the shadowed hallways of Hogwarts when they met for late-night duels. Even in the chaos, and jeering, and whirling parchment of the Wizengamot courtroom. If he dropped all of his recollections of his school years into a Pensieve—every memory of victory, of embarrassment, of adolescent fumbling, of high drama—Harry was sure he would see the hint of silver-slicked hair and cold eyes in the periphery. Harry had looked for Malfoy in every crowd for six years—not deliberately, of course, but still. He had reflected over the years—usually after a bottle of wine or a snifter-too-many of Firewhisky—that perhaps rivalry hadn’t been his only motivation in searching out that flash of grey and white.

But Harry hadn't seen Malfoy in years. Not since he had watched that pale face crumple with relief at the end of his trial; after Dumbledore’s posthumous letter had been read out; after Harry himself had testified in his defence. The last Harry had seen of Malfoy was his back, tall and straight, as he disappeared from the courtroom with his mother by his side. 

He knew Malfoy wasn’t in prison, and wasn't serving any kind of secret sentence that Harry had missed in the uproar of the court. And he knew Malfoy had gone to France for his final year of schooling. Harry knew Malfoy had come back to England about a year ago. He knew because he had checked the records. It wasn’t quite within his legal remit, to check on private citizens for his own puzzling curiosity, but he didn’t get caught; and that was what counted (Hermione had taught him that). 

He’d received a letter, though, a year after the Battle of Hogwarts. Crisp white parchment, and simple but startling words of apology, and explanation without a hint of excuse, and no request for forgiveness; signed _most sincerely, Draco Malfoy_. Harry still had it, tucked into an old Defence book in his school trunk along with the other trinkets and ephemera he couldn’t seem to let go of; a crumpled photo that Colin Creevy had taken of him and Ron one sunny day on the Quidditch pitch, all of Sirius’s letters, a single perfect white feather. 

But Harry hadn’t _seen_ him—until now, that was.

A difficult case—the attempted production of illegal Time-Turners, and several resulting bouts of relativistic anomalies and tears in the continuum—had called for liaising with the Unspeakable Department. That unfortunate necessity had led to Robards and Croaker putting together a joint task-force; a team of specialised Aurors and Unspeakables; and _that_ had led to Harry sitting across a conference table from Draco-sodding-Malfoy for the first time in four years. 

Harry felt the scowl gathering in his brows. _This_ hadn’t been in the files he had scrounged from the Archive. Bloody Unspeakables and their bloody secrecy policies; Merlin forbid any of the buggers ever decided to break the law, the Auror Department would be fucked even attempting to prove any of them _were_ Unspeakables. 

He clenched his jaw to bite back the instinctual antagonism that bubbled in his gut at the sight of Malfoy’s sharp cheekbones and pert mouth. It was like being sixteen all over again—only now he didn’t have the excuse of youth or a lack of self-knowledge. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Ron drop his head into his hand, rubbing irritably at his brow—and at any other time, Harry would give him a shove for it—but he couldn’t tear his gaze away from Malfoy. 

Because he wasn’t actually surprised that Malfoy was an Unspeakable now, it made sense, really. No. What had cut the brakes of Harry’s self-restraint and sent him free-wheeling into uncontrolled curiosity was what Malfoy _looked_ like. His face had changed.

His _eyes_ had changed. 

Harry would have noticed if they had always looked like this. He’s sure of it. He might not have been themost observant when he was a kid—Hermione still sometimes teased him about forgetting what colour Ron’s eyes were in Fifth Year—but he hadn’t given quite the same intensity of focus to Ron’s face that he had to Malfoy’s (it hadn’t mattered to Harry what Ron looked like; it had mattered that he was kind, and funny, and that he hugged Harry, and told his mum that Harry had no-one to give him gifts at Christmas, and that he shared Harry’s sweets and adventures in equal measure.) 

Something must have happened to Malfoy. Maybe it was an Unspeakable thing. Maybe Malfoy’s colleague, Jones, hadn’t always had dark hair, maybe the strawberry-pink mark on Wainwright’s hand was acquired on his employment, rather than at birth. Maybe Malfoy had done it to himself, on purpose, to look cool. Maybe it was some kind of trend Harry didn’t know about, something he picked up when he was abroad after the war, opting to finish his schooling at Beauxbatons rather than Hogwarts and poaching fashionable European habits while he was there.

Nobody else had commented on it. For about half a day, Harry actually wondered if he was the only one who _could_ see it. But no. He mentioned it to Ron over lunch, and after a lot of eye-rolling and exaggerated digs about ‘Sixth Year all over again’ (and muttered platitudes about how ‘looks aren’t everything, it’s what’s inside that counts’ that sounded suspiciously Hermione-sourced) he admitted that he’d noticed too. He’d then promptly told Harry to ‘leave off’ and the shock of Ron apparently defending Malfoy had been enough to silence him on the matter. 

But he hadn’t stopped _thinking_ about it. 

After lunch, they were back in the conference room, enjoying the thrilling second-half of Robard’s introduction of the case ‘for our guests from the Department of Mysteries’. Malfoy was sitting ramrod straight, and he wore the severe grey robes of his department, with no identifying badge or mark of rank to differentiate him from his colleagues. Unlike the other Unspeakables sitting on either side of him though, the uniform actually _suited_ Malfoy. The high collar and neat array of tiny buttons made him look sharp and masterly, the slate-grey fabric made him look elegant, rather than washed out and boring like most of the other staff in his department. 

But it wasn’t the grey robe that Harry couldn’t look away from. It was Malfoy himself. It was Malfoy’s face. 

Harry could admit to himself that he was studying him, collecting details and differences like Malfoy’s appearance was a case he was personally tasked to solve, even if he had rebuffed Ron’s accusations over sandwiches and crisps not ten minutes before. But he couldn’t help himself; his curiosity had been piqued.

Malfoy was still pale, his skin milk-white. But now, he had the faintest trace of freckles across his cheekbones. His hair was still fair, silver-blonde and bright as a new Sickle. But his eyebrows, and his eyelashes, were dark now; framing his eyes with dramatic sweeps and arches of black. A charcoal sketch on white vellum, bold and delicate. And his eyes. His _eyes_ were different now, too. Shockingly so. 

One of Draco’s eyes was _blue_ , now. 

Glacial, Ionian, as bright as a wide open summer sky. His eyes—one blue and startling, one grey and familiar—were just as sharp, and piercing, and the longer Harry looked, just as angry as they had always been. But the contrast, the _change_ , had caught Harry unawares. Storm-grey and sunshine-blue. They were fascinating. 

He had struggled to look away for the rest of that initial briefing. Malfoy had glared at first, when he caught Harry watching. Then he had frowned, those newly dark brows gathering in a formidable scowl, and fixed his two-tone gaze firmly on Robards as he lectured them. After a few minutes though, Malfoy’s expression smoothed into deliberate placidity, and he looked for all the world like he didn’t notice Harry’s scrutiny. 

Harry, however, was not calm. For a moment he indulged himself in the wild fantasy of throwing himself over the table and shaking Malfoy by the collar until that veneer of unruffled calm dissolved into the same kind of anxious frustration that now buzzed in Harry’s ears. Ever since he was eleven, Harry had come to almost relish the mirror of Malfoy’s grey eyes—the flash of sparking anger and dislike there that matched his own—and take a strange pleasure in the certainty of it. But now that odd comfort was gone, and Harry wasn’t convinced that there _was_ enough hatred left in him—in either of them anymore—for it to be reflected back via Malfoy’s eyes. Harry wasn’t sure how to feel about it, ridiculous as it was. 

* * *

But that was just the beginning. Because now that they were working together, Harry saw Malfoy every single day. He couldn’t help but watch him, to notice and catalogue the changes in him, to wonder what he had done to make himself look so different, and wonder _why_ he might have done it. And it wasn’t just his eyes, those coal-black brows, or the freckles. Harry couldn’t help but notice other changes, too; or maybe Malfoy had always been clever and diligent underneath his schoolboy sneers and petty cruelties.

Ron spent the weeks they were working on the case alternating between huffing irritably at Harry’s constant theorising, and gleefully teasing him for his unabated fascination, though he at least had the decency to do it quietly enough at work that the rest of the team didn’t hear. He wasn’t quite generous enough not to tell Hermione though, and Ginny and George too when they were all at the Burrow for lunch, and sniggered into his elderflower cordial when they both rounded on Harry with raised eyebrows and pointed questions about what _exactly_ it was about Malfoy had caught his eye enough to stare as shamelessly as Ron reported. Followed by lots of summer-tipsy cackling over his stuttered explanations. ‘Blue as the ocean’ was apparently ‘ridiculous’, and ‘embarrassing’, and ‘oh, _Harry_ , really?’

But Harry wasn’t staring. Or being ridiculous, or embarrassing. He was just—observing. All of these changes to Malfoy were new. He was curious. _That_ wasn’t a crime. In fact, Harry was an Auror, observing people was his _job_. The fact that he was also quite capable of lying to himself about his motives was not the point.

Malfoy was one of three Unspeakables brought up from the lower levels, working with Harry, Ron, and Cleo from the Auror department. And they were all working well together, even though Harry could hardly believe it. He had predicted disaster as soon as he had seen Malfoy on that first morning, in the face of memories of their antagonism and deliberate goading during school. But Harry found himself surprised as the days passed and no arguments (or fights) broke out between them. Malfoy was always polite, carefully so, but somehow it felt deliberate and thoughtful, rather than insincere . He was neat, and punctual, and he hadn’t once taken the piss out of Ron (despite many opportunities), or even been scathing when Harry made a suggestion. If he disagreed he communicated professionally with well-reasoned points, and to put the nail in the coffin of Harry’s ruffled ego—he was usually bloody right, too. He was just… reasonable. And sort of relaxing to be around, except for the overzealous interest he provoked in Harry.

So Harry continued to quietly observe him while they worked. He couldn’t help it; even when he tried to stop, his treacherous eyes would unerringly slide to that new-familiar face. Thankfully, Malfoy was so focused when he was working that Harry thought he might have got away without Malfoy actually _noticing_ the way Harry was constantly watching him. 

Even though he knew it was probably a good thing—saving his blushes, and probably avoiding awkward questions or a full blown conflict—it still made Harry grind his teeth with frustration. He’d catch sight of those eyes, that vivid blue and smoky-grey, and when they stayed fixed on a report instead of meeting his gaze, Harry would find himself filled with the sudden desire to do stupid things like knock his coffee over so it spilled across their shared paperwork, or even blurt out some of the questions and compliments queuing up on his tongue, just to see if Malfoy would snap. Maybe he’d shout. Or sneer. Or slam the door as he walked out of the crisis room they had been based in for the last week and a half. At the very least he’d grace Harry with a glare. Because he certainly wasn’t gifting him much eye contact otherwise. But Harry was a professional. So he restrained himself from all that, at least. 

Harry knew that his building frustration wasn’t really about their past hostilities. And, as weird as it felt, he couldn’t even pretend it had something to do with them working together. They had actually spent three days out doing fieldwork together during the second week of their case, and Malfoy had loosened up a bit over a pub lunch and an on-duty shandy. He had let slip a stupid story about getting drunk on pilfered wine at Beauxbatons, and streaking through the formal _broderie_ in order to skinny dip in the fountain, and Harry had been wheezing with laughter by the time he described—in detail—the terror that ensued as Madame Maxime had thundered through the gardens in her negligee. 

He had to admit—if only to himself, and maybe Ron, too—that he and Malfoy were getting on. And it was mostly because Harry had held back on his worst instincts and managed to actually talk to Malfoy a bit, instead of falling back on the well-worn habits of suspicion, or new ones of just bloody _looking_ at him—rather than because Malfoy was behaving differently. Harry had never thought that _he_ would end up being the unreasonable one of the two of them. 

But, of course, it was the looking that was making him so frustrated—not Malfoy at all. Because Harry liked it. He _liked_ the way Malfoy looked now. He looked nothing like the carefully curated white and grey of his youth; all of that bland, tasteless perfection had been disrupted with contrast, and chaos, and that vibrant blue that made Harry think of sunshine, and salt water, and the rush of rising ever higher into the sky. Malfoy looked weird—he looked different, and strange, and _beautiful_. 

Harry wanted to look at him all the time. That bicolour gaze had even infiltrated his dreams, disruptive and beguiling. And Harry knew now, that it was more than just Malfoy’s looks that were different. So Harry’s curiosity evolved, and expanded; he wanted to know all of the ways Malfoy had changed in the time between walking out of that courtroom with Harry’s stare heavy on his back, to the moment he had sat down in the chair opposite him three weeks prior. 

Harry was in trouble.

* * *

Malfoy came out and joined the rest of the team for drinks at the end of their third week working together, looking relaxed and at ease in the rowdy after-work crowd at The Hopping Pot—Ron’s preferred watering-hole on a Friday night. Harry had bitten the inside of his cheek when he realised Malfoy was coming, half against a muscle-memory protestation, half against the unexpected excitement fluttering in his belly. Ron had bumped his shoulder as they walked down Diagon Alley towards Carkitt Market, a conspiratorial look in his eye as he subtly nodded toward Malfoy who was walking just in front of Harry. He was laughing with Cleo, and his shoulders were broad, and his fair hair caught in the dipping sunlight, and Harry was watching him again, wasn’t he? 

That night had been—well—it had been a bit brilliant, actually. And nothing like Harry had expected. Malfoy was funny, and clever, and the way he waved his hands around as he told stories made him look young, and bright, and open. His mismatched eyes were weird, and unique, and he didn’t look _perfect_ anymore—he looked human, and real, and sort of magical. He bought everyone a round when it was his turn—twice during the course of the evening—and the sooty darkness of his eyelashes against his fair skin in the light of the low candles at their table made something hot turn in Harry’s belly as he watched him talk. The look Malfoy sent him over his drink, a smile crinkling his eyes as they all laughed about the Cannon’s recent loss, made something stranger still clench in Harry’s chest with an altogether different kind of warmth. 

Malfoy might look different, but he also appeared to have shed his old prejudice and rancour—maybe they burned in the Fiendfyre like Crabbe, or settled into his footprints, left behind like dust as he had walked away from his life in England at age seventeen. He was different, in all the right ways. So Harry wasn’t going to act like an arsehole—or, Merlin forbid, a lech—and ruin the friendly atmosphere they had going. He wasn’t. But he was still so fucking curious he thought he might actually explode. 

He walked into their makeshift office—now thoroughly plastered in moving photos of crime scenes and fluttering memos from down in the Time Room—the following Monday morning. The six of them were using it as an incident room while they worked on this case, but today it was only him and Malfoy in. Harry had just been to get some much-needed lunch for them both—Malfoy got snappish and tight-lipped the hungrier he got, and Harry simply slowed down until he couldn’t bother to even read the form in front of him—but when he shouldered the door open he paused, frozen in shock at the sight that greeted him. 

Malfoy had shed his formal grey robes for the first time. Underneath he wore neatly tailored trousers and a white shirt. And he had rolled the sleeves up, exposing his forearms. Harry had sort of got used to Malfoy in his Unspeakable uniform; buttoned-up and elegant, neat and untouchable. But all the distance and composure Harry had dredged up over the weekend—ready to come into work and be normal—evaporated at the sight of Malfoy so… undone. Malfoy looked up, and he must have seen it all on Harry’s face, because his greeting died on his lips, trailing into quiet as Harry stood with the brown paper bag full of souvlaki and dips. It looked uncomfortably likely that years without contact hadn’t dulled Malfoy’s ability to read him like a book, or sharpened Harry’s ability to hide his expressions. 

Harry had once thought he would always be able to read Malfoy, as familiar as his sneers and raised eyebrows had been throughout their school years. But Malfoy was a harder code to crack now that they wandered into the foreign territory of rapport and amiability. Harry had never before learned what the slight curl of Malfoy’s lip meant when it edged more toward a smile than sneer. He’d never seen warmth when Malfoy’s gaze had been directed at him before, and didn’t quite know what to do with it now that he was on the receiving end of it.

Malfoy’s altered face made it even harder for Harry. The same shape—all angles and sharp lines—but now so vividly brought to life. The perfection of his pristine paleness broken by arched brows, and faint freckles, and that startling blue eye—colour and expression painted bold but unfamiliar—and all of it so bloody captivating, such a contrast, that Harry simply couldn’t seem to hold his nerve when confronted with him. 

Or maybe it was simpler still. Maybe Harry just couldn’t parse the twitch of Malfoy’s mouth because he had never been so distracted when he looked at Malfoy before—and not by the case, or even his own curiosity—he was distracted by how much he _liked_ what he saw. Harry liked Malfoy’s face. He liked the curve of Malfoy’s throat, and his broad shoulders; he liked his hands, and the tensile strength of the forearms he had exposed. He was so busy _liking_ it he didn’t even catch himself staring at first, still standing in the door and gaping like a startled first-year cadet while Malfoy watched him right back. 

He did, however, catch the way Malfoy arched one brow and cocked his head to look at him. 

“Go on,” Malfoy sighed. “I know you want to. And nobody’s about. Just ask.”

“What—um. Ask what? I just—” Harry brandished his bag of lunch like a shield against Draco’s resigned expression.

“You’ve been damn near crawling out of your skin since you clapped eyes on me last month. Just ask. Ask about the—” he gestured at his face. “Just come in, and sit down, and _ask._ Everyone always wants to know, why should you be any different?”

And Harry could hardly refuse, because he _had_ been going wild with curiosity. He had attempted to research what might cause a change in eye colour like that. He had even subtly approached Pansy when she came over with Ginny to the Burrow at the weekend, only to be smartly rebuffed and slink away feeling very much like a puppy who just got smacked with a newspaper. So he closed the door behind him, put their lunch on the table in front of Malfoy, like an offering, and sat down.

“Alright, well. Um. What happened? To your—you know—your face.” 

Harry winced; he could probably have worded that better. The unimpressed glare he got from Malfoy underlined the point. But Malfoy leaned back, and crossed his legs; he made the hard office chairs look comfortable as he rolled his shoulders and settled. 

“I was cursed, Potter—if you must know—after the war. It happened in Diagon Alley, during my first trip back after the trials. Somebody, obviously a victim or a grieving survivor of the war, grabbed me and cast before I could react. Probably for the best; I’m not sure I would have even known what to do to defend myself back then without ending up in Azkaban.” Malfoy drew the paper bag of food toward himself, and began to share out their lunches as he spoke. “It’s not even actually a curse. It’s an old charm—very clever too—it strips the subject of any Glamours, and when used in its full and most potent incantation it makes the individual essentially impervious to any future Glamours. Of course, they gave me the full serving of the spell, which was understandable.”

“I don’t understand. It wasn’t a curse? You were Glamoured?” 

“No, not a curse, but for me… it was as good as one. The charm was historically used for arranged marriages—useful for making sure the bride really _was_ as pretty or as young as she appeared to be. But, in this case, it was obviously deemed to be the ideal way to make sure I could never try to hide _this_ for the rest of my life.” He gestured to the faded dark mark on his forearm, exposed by his rolled up sleeve, the outline of snake and skull was now a pale grey scar. “Anyway—as well as stopping me from ever trying to hide the evidence of my past mistakes, it also stripped all Glamours that had previously been placed on me, including the ones my father laid on me when I was an infant.”

Harry frowned, and couldn’t hold back his incredulous scoff. “Your dad—what? He decided you didn’t look right when you were born? Did you _know_?”

“No, I didn’t. I’m not sure who was more surprised that day, me, or the idiot who assaulted me.”

“I don’t understand, why—?” Harry trailed off, not quite sure how to ask, without sounding like a complete berk. 

Malfoy sighed, and Harry was suddenly a bit disappointed in himself, that he had let his curiosity push Malfoy to share a personal story that made him slump in his chair like that. It hadn’t occurred to him that someone might have done this to Malfoy against his will, or that it would have revealed his own parents’ disapproval of something so harmless as the colour of his eyes—disapproval strong enough that they changed him, when he was still only a little baby. What had started as idle interest, and had quickly grown into a fierce inquisitiveness, now felt like meddling and prying where he had no business. 

“He wanted me to look perfect, Potter, he wanted a child that was the _perfect_ union of the Black and Malfoy houses. Then I was born, and I simply wasn’t good enough. My eyes didn’t fit the ideal, nor my skin, not even my bloody eyebrows. So, he changed them. Permanently. Tricky magic, but he hired a Master to come in and do it when I was a few days old.” 

“A few days?” Harry was reeling. He thought about Teddy when he was just a month old and how all Harry could think of doing was cuddling him close and watching his tiny little face. He couldn’t fathom wanting to let some stranger come in and cast weird magic on him; he probably would have duelled someone if they tried. “Your mum told you about it?”

“She rather had to, Potter. As I’m sure you can imagine, I was more than slightly perturbed when I saw the results of what had been done to me. She’s actually the one that recognised what spell I had been hit with, because Grandfather Abraxas had insisted she submit to its use on her during the marriage arrangements with my father. Anyway—” he waved at his face, and wiggled his eyebrows. “I’ve had my own eyes ever since. I know it’s a little disconcerting, Pansy kept giving me funny looks for ages afterwards.”

“It’s—um—it’s not ‘disconcerting’,” Harry argued, finding himself in the peculiar position of wanting to defend Malfoy from his own self-deprecation. “It’s just different, and it made me wonder, but I’m getting used to it already. It’s nice, though.”

“Nice?” Malfoy’s eyebrow was back up again, and he narrowed his eyes, like some animal that had caught sight of prey.

Harry shovelled tzatziki and pita into his mouth to avoid answering immediately; he needed a second to put his thoughts together. He was at work, and this was _Malfoy_ , and just because Harry had been… increasingly interested in his new colleague, didn’t mean Malfoy felt the same way. It might not have been his cleverest move though, because his chewing was now the only sound in the room, and Malfoy looked on the verge of snapping—just when Harry was hoping he might be able to take advantage of the new, relaxed, Malfoy he’d been learning to enjoy. He hurriedly finished his mouthful and took a sip of water.

“Not _nice,_ but not not-nice either!” Malfoy snorted at that, watching Harry fumble. So Harry decided to just be properly honest, surely it couldn’t be worse than his attempts to skirt around the issue. “I just mean—it’s different, obviously, but it’s not bad. It’s good. You look—you look good, Malfoy.”

A flicker of astonishment crossed Malfoy’s face for a brief moment before he schooled his expression back into arched brows and a wry mouth; the very picture of confidence. And, actually, Harry liked that too—the fact that they could bounce back from awkwardness now, that Malfoy was obviously becoming comfortable with him.

“You like it, do you? I have to admit, I didn’t see that one coming. I thought you might have been drifting back into old habits, worried I was up to no good.” He shot Harry a sarcastic little grin before biting into his apple. 

Half an hour prior Harry might have been embarrassed at the obvious way his gaze dropped helplessly to the flash of Malfoy’s pink tongue as he licked at the juice that beaded on his bottom lip, but that seemed like a waste of energy now. The cat was out of the bag. So he simply leaned back in his chair, suddenly relaxed. Harry had asked his question, and gotten a more than satisfactory answer—in fact, Malfoy being so open and honest drew him in even more. All that was left was his attraction, and maybe that wasn’t actually a problem. Not if Draco’s smile was anything to go by.

“Funnily enough, that hadn’t ever actually occurred to me. I’ve been a bit busy realising you’ve turned out to be someone I’d like to know more about. And yeah, I do like it—and not just the way you look, either. But—“ He cast a quick, wandless Tempus. “—there’s still an hour of us being on duty. And a week before we close this case. What do you say to continuing this conversation when we’re no longer officially colleagues.”

“ _Oh_.”

Harry had managed to surprise Malfoy, and it was enough to make him smile, confident. “Oh?”

“Yes, Potter. ‘Oh’. Only you would be a fumbling idiot for three weeks, make me wonder if you still hated me—while somehow actually being friendly and surprisingly competent—proceed to cough out the most awkward interrogation about my ‘condition’ I’ve ever heard, and then leap from that right to—what—asking me out?”

“Yeah, I reckon I am. Well, setting a date to ask you out, at least. Trying to be less of a rule-breaker, these days.” Harry tried to smile disarmingly, he’d been told his dimples were ‘compelling’ once, and he hoped Malfoy was susceptible. “Are you going to take me up on it, then?” 

Malfoy huffed, but Harry could see the softening around his eyes, so he just grinned at the theatrics because he knew he hadn’t ballsed it all up. In the corridor outside, the rest of their team headed towards the office; Harry could hear the tramp of their boots and Ron laughing, and knew they only had a minute or two before this bubble of admission, and honesty, and nascent flirting was unceremoniously popped. 

“I—“ Malfoy looked toward the door, back at Harry, grey-blue eyes as sharp and piercing as ever as he thought over Harry’s offer, before he nodded. “Alright, ask me when this job is over. We can continue the conversation over a drink, maybe, or dinner.”

Harry hadn’t thought he’d get as far as dinner, so he spent the rest of the day quietly buzzing with pleased excitement, and glancing furtively at Malfoy while they both read their way through reports and witness statements—each time he got caught, he was surprised by the tiny smile that curled at Malfoy’s mouth. Harry worked as efficiently as he could the rest of the day, and planned to keep it up for the rest of the week. He was a dedicated Auror at the best of times, but now he _really_ wanted to close the case. 

* * *

“Well. The suspects are in custody, reports are filed, our little interdepartmental team is officially disbanded—sorry for your loss by the way, I know how the Auror department so enjoyed having Unspeakables in the nest.” Malfoy’s grin was sharp, and Harry laughed, he’d learned to differentiate when Malfoy’s barbs were pure cheek rather than deliberately mean. “I’m heading out, but not home. Fancy a chat?”

Malfoy’s voice was carefully disaffected, but he might as well have just lit up a neon sign above his head as far as Harry was concerned. It had been nearly a fortnight since their shared lunch, since Malfoy had explained the reason for his new appearance, since Harry had given himself away. A week longer than Harry’s optimistic prediction for them closing the case, and Merlin, that had chafed. Harry had been waiting for this moment, and he hadn’t expected Malfoy to be the one to bring it up first, but he wasn’t going to let the opportunity pass without grabbing at it.

“Over dinner?” 

“Mmm,” Malfoy hummed in approval. “I could eat.”

“The Flying Phoenix, down on Diurn Alley, has really nice food. We could head straight there, and leave our robes here, unless you want to go home and change?” Harry hoped Malfoy wouldn’t; he’d been waiting a fortnight for this. And he didn’t want to wait a minute more, so he threw his own crimson robes over his chair to deal with the next time he was in the office.

He wasn’t disappointed. Malfoy undid the army of buttons on his uniform with a lazy wave of his wand—each one a glinting silver gateway to an altogether more _touchable_ Malfoy—before shrugging out of the grey clasp of the robes and casting them to hang neatly from the hook on the door. Harry couldn’t help the glance he swept up Malfoy’s form, from his polished shoes, up his long legs, to the shirt collar he was unbuttoning as he spoke.

“I like the steak there. Nice choice, Potter.” Malfoy was smirking when Harry dragged his eyes away from the soft-looking hollow of his throat to look at him properly. “Shall we?” 

He bumped his shoulder companionably against Harry’s as they walked out of the Ministry together, and he was warm, and solid, and Harry had waited a fortnight for this, so he leaned into the touch. There were eyes on them as they left the building, whispers too. But Malfoy didn’t seem to pay them any mind, so Harry didn’t either. Their hands brushed, too, as they ambled down to the trendy restaurant that was quickly becoming Harry’s favourite spot in the newly built—and very modern—Diurn Alley. 

Harry had mulled over possible destinations for days before he decided he would suggest the Flying Phoenix if Malfoy _did_ end up wanting to follow through on their tentative plans to explore something more personal than a collegiate relationship. He was glad of his planning, because it meant they could skip the palaver of picking who wanted to go where, and Harry could focus on wondering whether Malfoy was _intentionally_ letting his hand drift so close to Harry’s. It was too early to do anything rash, like reach out to grasp Malfoy’s palm and tangle their fingers like Harry wanted to. But he still revelled in the tingle of Malfoy’s knuckles grazing against his own.

They got a table outside, small but private, and sat happily soaking up the mid-August sunshine that still shone strong in the early evening. They talked about work, and the strange overlaps in their friendship groups that neither could have ever imagined when they were still at school. They talked around the war, and Harry was happy to let those conversations come later; Malfoy’s letter had shown his regret, and his attitudes over the last month had shown Harry what he needed to know about his character now. They would need to chew over the details, the memories, at some point—but for now Malfoy was grinning, and Harry knew he was too; they had beer, and wine, and their plates were empty; and still the conversation flowed between them.

“You should have seen my face when Pansy told me this mystery woman she’d been wining and dining was Ginny Weasley,” Draco laughed. And it wasn’t mean, it was honest, and Harry _could_ imagine it—because he probably made about the same grimace of stunned confusion when Ginny had told him about Pansy. “Merlin, it’s odd—but she’s so happy.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah, Ginny, too. Pansy was at the Burrow the other week for Sunday dinner, so it must be getting serious, I reckon. Pansy even gave George a run for his money, when he tried slipping one of his new tricks into Ginny’s bag. It was bloody brilliant—and they’re a good match, by the looks of it.”

“Oh, I heard about that—how long did it take for the bats to stop flying out of his nose? Pansy can be rather protective of the people she loves, though honestly, I might have counselled a little restraint at a family gathering with the soon-to-be in-laws.”

Harry barked a laugh at that, and raised an eyebrow at the implication.

“Oh stop it, Potter, surely you can see it coming too. But that had better not go any further than this table,” Malfoy warned.

“I’ll keep quiet as long as you keep me updated,” Harry countered, then asked. “Isn’t it a bit weird? Us still calling each other by our last names, now we’re on a date.” 

Malfoy’s foot nudged Harry’s under the table, then rested against his ankle. They paused their conversation as a waitress discreetly removed their empty plates and re-filled their glasses before leaving them to their conversation, under the comforting veil of a Muffling Charm. Then he leaned forward, one dark brow arched and a look of mischief on his face.

“It’s a bit bloody weird that we’re out for dinner together at all, if you think about it. And don’t think I didn’t notice you upgrading this to date status—you sold this to me as a ‘conversation’.” 

Then Malfoy pressed his knee against Harry’s, too, and he was still leaning forward. So Harry toyed with the label on his beer bottle and looked up at Malfoy through his lashes. Two could play at that game. 

“Thought I’d aim high, and see where I landed, Malfoy,” Harry laughed. “But I agree, I wouldn’t have bet on this being the outcome of us reuniting over a case at work. I’m happy it did though.”

“I like your ambition. And I like this, too. Dinner, with you. It’s strange, but not all change is bad, is it?” Malfoy tilted his head, watching Harry intently. 

His eyes were startling in the sun, even as it dipped behind the horizon. Harry had gotten used to them in the office, with the permanent Lumos hanging overhead and the dark-tiled corridors; where Malfoy’s features had been bleached out, or cast into shadow. Out here, in his crisp white shirt, with the sun on his face, Malfoy was gorgeous. Harry couldn’t think of any changes to Malfoy that he didn’t wholeheartedly appreciate.

“Definitely not all bad,” Harry agreed.

“Well then, let’s go all the way—” Malfoy paused for effect, winked at Harry’s open mouth, then continued, “—we’ve solved a case, and eaten a meal together, so I’ll call you Harry, and you can call me Draco. Though I’ll admit now that it’ll take a while to shake the ‘Potter’ habit.”

“Oh, I don’t think I mind sticking around long enough to see when you manage to shake it entirely, _Draco_.”

And it was only their first date—a first step, a tentative exploration of the potential they had uncovered that afternoon in the incident room over lunch—so Harry was happy when the conversation moved on to Quidditch, and stories from their respective Ministry training. He was happy when Draco ordered another glass of wine, and a beer for Harry, because it meant they could keep talking until the candle on their table was lit for them, a tiny golden glow against the creeping darkness of the summer night. 

He was even happy that Draco called it a night before eleven, and didn’t invite Harry back to his place. It was dinner, it was drinks, it was the conversation they had promised each other; it was exactly what Harry had hoped for. And when Draco caught Harry’s hand in his as they neared the Apparition point, about to part ways for the night, he felt that same tingle of anticipation and helpless attraction. Draco’s hand was warm, and strong, and his fingers were longer than Harry’s; they cradled his hand easily. 

Draco tugged him closer, and Harry went easily. Curious.

“First name terms, and a dinner date. What do you think, Harry? Are we going to do this again?” Draco asked, voice low.

Harry was nodding before Draco had finished. “Yeah. Yes. I want to, if you do.”

“I’d like that. I’ll owl you?”

“Alright.” 

“I also want to kiss you goodnight,” Draco murmured.

They were almost the same height now, though Draco still had an inch on him, so Harry took the final step to bring them chest to chest, and tilted his face, ready and waiting. 

“Go on then,” he urged.

And that was all it took for Draco to slot his mouth against Harry’s, mouth closed, but soft and clinging. He drew back, and Harry opened his eyes only to find himself caught in Draco’s blue-grey gaze. Draco reached up with his free hand to cup Harry’s jaw, stroke his thumb across his cheekbone, and then leaned in to kiss him again. This time, Harry opened his mouth, and welcomed the lick of Draco’s tongue at his lips. He tasted of red wine, and the slick slide of their tongues had Harry reaching out to steady himself against Draco’s waist. The feel of the muscles there flexing as he pulled Harry closer by their still clasped hands was delicious.

Draco was the one to pull back first, his lips shiny with Harry’s saliva, his pale skin like blood-flushed marble under the streetlights. And even in the low light, his eyes were as strange, and as beautiful, as ever. Harry was breathing heavily. Draco too—all from one kiss. 

“Goodnight then, Harry.” Draco drew back, with one last stroke to Harry’s jaw as he let go of his hand and then Disapparated; leaving Harry alone on Diagon Alley, but smiling.

Touching his mouth, Harry wondered what their next dinner would be like, what their first night together would bring, and he couldn’t help the rising wave of exhilaration; he knew it would be different from anything before, and he couldn’t wait to find out.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Comments and kudos are hugely appreciated.
> 
> This work is part of the 2020 HP Inspired by Imagery Fest, an on-going anonymous fest. Authors will be revealed once all works are posted.


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